


Idanian Spice Pudding

by Vorta_Scholar



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Anthropology, Creampie, F/M, Feeding, Fluff, Inappropriate Behavior, Lemon, Light Angst, Penis In Vagina Sex, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, Riding, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vorta_Scholar/pseuds/Vorta_Scholar
Summary: Set during the Dominion occupation of Deep Space 9. The Reader is an anthropologist who specializes in Vorta studies, who has been recruited by the Federation to gain insider information on the Vorta which may be used to the Federation's advantage. While on the job, she accidentally falls for her subject, the fifth incarnation of the Vorta called Weyoun.
Relationships: Weyoun 5/Reader, Weyoun/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Idanian Spice Pudding

**Author's Note:**

> A couple weeks ago, there was a post circulating on Tumblr which asked people to put in the tags what they'd want their job to be if they lived in the Star Trek universe but weren't in Starfleet. And this was basically the job I put: Vorta anthropologist, who Sisko hired to infiltrate the Dominion, but whose main job is annoying the piss out of Weyoun. Well. Someone sent me an anonymous message saying something along the lines of, "Just call it what it is, an excuse to fuck Weyoun for science," which I thought was hilarious. A few jokes were made back and forth, and now. Well. Here's this thing.

“Another interview?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the sheet of paper in front of him.

You stopped just inside the room. The door whirred shut behind you, and you stared at him, surprised. Slowly, you lowered the PADD in your hand.

“You knew it was me?” you asked.

He looked up from the sketch in front of him. “Of course,” he said with a smile, which could have been mistaken for friendly, though you knew it was likely a mask, like most of his other _polite_ or _friendly_ behaviors.

Still, it was easy to forget that.

You smiled back, and came to sit across from him, setting the PADD down in front of you.

“What’ve you got this time?” you asked.

“Tora Ziyal’s latest masterpiece,” he said, angling it towards you. “Opinions?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face intently, but oddly blank, as though no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite get you into focus.

You pondered vaguely the idea of talking one of the Bajoran nurses into tricking him into an eye exam, and picked up the drawing.

“It’s lovely,” you said.

“Hm,” he intoned, still looking at you.

“Um,” you hesitated, “I have no knowledge of Bajoran or Cardassian art styles. I don’t even know much about human art. I can’t say much more than that it’s...nice.”

He nodded. “At least you can appreciate it,” he said.

He took it back, setting it down where it had been in front of him. His hand, resting once again on the table, reached forward, towards you.

No.

Towards the PADD, you realized, as he pointed to it.

“What have you got?” he asked.

“Oh,” you said, looking at it again. Your face suddenly felt warm. “Dietary habits.”

“ _Vorta_ dietary habits,” he said, almost questioning. But he knew.

“Mhm,” you hummed, scrolling through the list of questions.

He sighed, and clasped his hands in front of him, sitting up more professionally, making you suddenly aware of how close he had been leaning towards your side of the table.

“Well,” he said, “where to start… There is not much that the Vorta can taste. Or rather...there is not much that we truly have an opinion on. There are...certain berries and nuts native to our home planet which are quite enjoyable to us, but not much else even registers as good or bad.”

“Interesting,” you said, ticking a few boxes, making a few notes, trying not to meet his gaze, which you felt on you still, moving up and down what there was of you that was visible from across the table.

“Textures, on the other hand,” he said, “are of much greater interest. The sense of taste is subdued, but our mouths are rather sensitive.”

There was a silence.

You cleared your throat, and you could have sworn you heard him laugh, barely audibly.

He sighed again thoughtfully. “Textures are interesting to test and explore,” he went on. “No real sense of taste. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” you said, quickly latching onto something you could ask to fill the next silence before it occurred. “Can you elaborate?”

“There isn’t much more to it than that,” he said. “You see, I sample foods and drinks just to see how they feel. To supplement nutrients as well, of course, but the appeal is largely in the...mouthfeel.”

You chuckled. “ _Mouthfeel_?”

“It’s a word,” he said, and you caught a glint of a smile.

You smiled back, and that glint spread into a wide grin.

“Okay,” you said. “Any favorite textures?”

“There’s an Earth pudding,” he said. “I don’t remember the name, but it’s smooth, and it has...a slightly _grainy_ texture. From spices, I think.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, writing down just what he had said. “Grainy pudding, huh? Sounds gross.”

He rolled his eyes. “To you, perhaps. I am unable to describe the taste, which would probably be more appealing to you.”

You nodded, and went back to ticking boxes.

“I’d like to be able to taste it,” he said, almost wistfully. “It’s a shame I can’t, but there’s nothing I can do about it. No sense in bemoaning the fact.”

“No,” you said quietly. “I suppose not.”

He pushed himself back in his chair and looked off distantly. “Let me see. Is there anything else I could tell you?” he asked himself. “No,” he said, looking once more at you. “I think that’s it.”

“Alright,” you nodded. “Thank you, Weyoun.”

“It’s no problem,” he said.

You started to stand, tucking the PADD under your arm and turning toward the door.

“Will I be seeing my favorite Federation informant again, same time next week?” he called after you, and you stopped abruptly, just in front of the door.

You turned around to face him, staring blankly ahead, praying he couldn’t see the fear in your eyes.

He smiled. “You couldn’t think I didn’t know.”

“Um,” you hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I rather enjoy our conversations. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Okay,” you managed.

“Anyhow, I don’t know how much the Federation can really get out of ‘the Vorta cannot taste. Subject Weyoun-5 likes grainy pudding,’” he chuckled. “Especially since they already know we can’t be poisoned.”

“Right,” you said, laughing with him, albeit with a more nervous inflection.

“So I’ll be seeing you next week?” he asked once more.

“Absolutely,” you said, nodding, and this time he let you go.

* * *

A few evenings later, you found yourself standing in front of the replicator in your quarters, scrolling through the dessert list, looking for anything that could have constituted “grainy pudding.”

After several pages, you found “Spice Pudding, Idanian.” Perhaps that was it. You’d never had any, but maybe it was worth a try.

But you remembered that Weyoun had called what he had an “Earth pudding...” Perhaps he had been wrong.

There came a chime at the door.

“Who is it?” you called.

“It’s Jake.”

A relief. Too often had it been some Cardassian or Jem’Hadar, and on one occasion both, come to make some vague threat regarding your publications. _Should you stray from the topic of the Vorta, or should you step out of line just a hair..._

“Come in.”

The door opened, and he stepped inside, and quite unceremoniously plopped down on the end of your sofa.

“Sit down, Jake,” you said, earning a laugh from him.

“Thanks.”

“How’s your, uh, _journalism_?” you asked.

“Fine,” he said. “I can’t publish, but you know, I’m getting plenty of information around Quark’s.”

You nodded. “I know how that is.”

“What about your _anthropology_?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said.

“Oh?” he said, sitting up, and you turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “What’s this tone I detect?”

“I didn’t have a tone,” you said, and noted the somewhat defensive tone you now took on.

“You had a tone,” he said teasingly.

“I did not have a tone,” you said.

He laughed, and so did you.

“You and Weyoun,” he said.

“What?” you asked, serious now.

“Well, he likes you,” he said.

“Oh, does he now?” you said skeptically as you turned back to the replicator. “Jake. What’s Idanian spice pudding like?”

“It’s sweet and creamy like most puddings, and it tastes almost like...pumpkin spice?” he said. “Anyway, he lets you interview him. Of course he likes you.”

“Is it grainy?” you asked, ignoring his last remark.

“I guess?” he said, confused. “Weyoun. We were talking about Weyoun.”

“You were talking about Weyoun,” you said. “I was talking about Idanian spice pudding.”

Jake groaned and rolled his eyes. “He accepts your surveys, your interviews, your incessant questioning. He _lets you publish_.”

“Well, maybe I’m just more personable than you,” you retorted, taking on his teasing tone.

“That’s not it,” he said.

“I’m more neutral in my writing?” you offered.

“Y/N,” he said. “He _likes_ you.”

“What if he does?” you asked. “He’s the enemy. He works for them.”

“So,” he said, “this might work out to our advantage. If…”

“Jake,” you said, a touch nervous in your uncertainty of where he was going with this.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” you said, and continued looking through the list of desserts.

“You should try the spice pudding,” he said. “It’s good.”

“Alright,” you said. “Thanks.”

“I should get back to Quark’s,” he said. “I’m meeting a few people there tonight. If you wanna come, you can.”

“I appreciate your efforts and everything you and Kira and everybody are doing, and I want to help,” you said softly, “but…”

“Walls have ears,” he said, nodding. “I know. Hey, what you’re doing is really helping, too. I don’t want to jeopardize the progress that you’re making by pressuring you into doing more. I just thought I’d invite you, you know, to talk to some like-minded people.”

“Thanks, Jake,” you said, smiling. You patted him on the shoulder before pulling him into a hug. “It’ll be over soon. I know it. You guys are gonna keep fighting the good fight. My stupid, pointless publications might turn out to be useful someday. Your dad’s gonna fight to get this place back, and everything will be back to normal. And I’m finally gonna beat you in that dom-jot rematch we talked about.”

He laughed, nodding, still holding you at arms length even after you broke the hug. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that.”

“See you around,” you said.

“See you,” he said, and headed out the door.

You clicked the dropdown menu on “Spice Pudding, Idanian,” and read the brief description. It was just as Jake had described, more or less. Thick, creamy, sweet, reminiscent of Earth’s traditional “pumpkin spice” flavor. Still, you wondered if that was what Weyoun had been talking about.

The door chimed again.

“Come in,” you said without thinking, some part of your brain likely assuming there was something Jake had forgotten to say and he had come back.

But when the door whirred open and shut a moment later, it was not his voice you heard.

“I hope I am not intruding.”

You turned abruptly. “Weyoun,” you said. “Uh, no. Of course not. Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He sat at the corner of the sofa where Jake had sat only a little while before, leaning somewhat stiffly against the arm of it. It was a somewhat humorous and adorable sight. You turned back to the replicator to hide the smile that was threatening to show through.

“Can I get you anything?” you asked.

“Idanian spice pudding,” he said.

So that _was_ it.

“Idanian spice pudding,” you said, and it appeared a moment later.

You brought it to him, not meeting his eyes even as he looked up at you and said his thanks, his tone so even and polite, and then you went back to stand beside the replicator, leaning back against the wall, your arms crossed in front of you. You hoped it looked more casual than it felt.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” you asked.

“I wanted to see you,” he said simply, his eyes trained on the bowl of pudding, of which he had yet to take a bite.

He glanced up at you.

“Is that so?” you asked.

He half-nodded, then went back to studying his pudding.

“Why?”

“Would you like to try some of this?” he asked.

“Um,” you hesitated, looking back at the replicator, then to him. “Sure...” To the replicator, you said, “Idanian spice—” but he cut you off.

“Computer,” he said, and the replicator chimed. “Never mind.”

It chimed again, and returned to standby mode.

“Wh…”

He nodded for you to come sit beside him, and hesitantly, you did, keeping a respectable distance between you. He angled his body toward you some to face you, and he raised a spoonful of it toward you.

You reached for it, and his hand retreated.

“Ah-ah,” he said with a sly sort of grin.

He wanted to feed you. Which was. Well, it was different. Not quite the sort of scholar-subject relationship you were trying to foster, but a part of you was thinking, _What the hell. Why not?_ While another was thinking, _What the hell? This definitely shouldn’t be happening._

You laughed. “Okay,” you said, and opened your mouth, and took the spoon into it when he offered it again.

You felt your face growing hot as his eyes remained locked on yours. You hoped whatever redness was showing through wasn’t too evident to him.

You swallowed. “Good,” you said quietly.

“Hm,” he intoned, placing the spoon back in the dish. “What does it taste like? Can you describe it for me?”

“Um, sweet,” you said. “Sort of...creamy. Almost like cinnamon and nutmeg, and, um. I really don’t know if you have any kind of reference for this. I’m sorry. I don’t know if any of this means anything to you.”

“I admit, it doesn’t,” he said. “But I do enjoy hearing you talk about it.”

“Okay,” you said quietly. He offered another bite, and you accepted. “So, yes, there’s a sort of cinnamony, nutmegy, gingery taste. It’s sweet, though. Um, I’ve heard it’s similar to an Earth dessert flavor called pumpkin spice, and I suppose it is. I’m not getting pumpkin, though.”

He smiled. “Okay,” he said.

You took the spoon from him and dipped it into the bowl and offered it to him, and he took it without hesitation.

“I do detect some of the sweetness,” he said. “But I cannot taste it as acutely as you can.”

“It’s just,” you said, chuckling, “ _grainy pudding_ to you.”

“Essentially,” he said.

He offered you another bite.

“Hm,” you intoned, nodding. “I do detect some of the graininess.”

You laughed, and so did he.

“See? I was right.”

“I didn’t doubt you,” you said.

“Well, thank you,” he said softly.

His expression softened, and tentatively, he moved closer.

“Hi,” you said softly, moving in, too, as he continued to do so.

“Hi,” he said back.

He leaned in almost cautiously, bringing his lips closer to yours until they were almost touching. His breath was hot and wet and sweet, and smelled almost like the pudding, but there was something else, too, which was somewhat familiar from your time spent with him, which you had never identified. His lips ghosted over yours before pressing against them more firmly.

You had to take the lead, you realized. He had only the vaguest idea of what to do, and that mainly consisted of holding his lips against yours. You carefully guided him in a series of small, gentle, slightly open-mouthed kisses. He caught on after a moment, sliding a hand into your hair as you gradually deepened the kiss.

“ _Hmm_ ,” he moaned pleasantly, and pulled away. “I apologize,” he said, “if I am not doing this properly. Kissing is not part of Vorta nature.”

“I think you’re doing alright,” you said, kissing him again, a little more chastely this time.

You took the mostly empty bowl out of his hand and placed it on the coffee table, then came back to kiss him again, picking up where you’d left off before. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling your body closer to his, and you wound your arms around his neck. He moaned once more into the kiss, sending an unexpected spark of pleasure through your body. Your heart skipped a beat, knowing that he was actually thoroughly enjoying what you were doing.

“I want you,” he said a moment later between kisses. “Whatever that entails. _Please_.”

“Computer, lock doors. Initiate ‘Do Not Disturb,’” you panted as his lips traveled lower, to your neck, and there was a soft chiming to let you know it had completed your request. 

You fumbled with each other’s clothes, stripping off jackets and shirts and his stupid multi-layered tunic. It wasn’t until he started to unfasten his belt that you began to feel nervous.

“Hold on,” you said, touching his arm, and he stopped what he was doing. “Do you want to, maybe, talk about this first?”

“Alright,” he agreed.

“So, I know nothing about Vorta mating practices, besides what is speculated,” you said. You let out a small, breathy sort of laugh. “And as we’ve discovered via our interviews, a lot of speculation has turned out to be embarrassingly wrong. So.”

“Right,” he said, sobering as he pulled away some.

“Is there anything I should know about how your people do this, you know, before?” you asked.

“We abandoned the act a long time ago, actually,” he said.

You weren’t sure why you were surprised. It made sense. Every Vorta alive today was the result of generations of cloning and genetic engineering. They had no biological need for it. Not only that, but based on their other alterations—weakened eyesight, subdued sense of taste, a nonexistent knowledge of, or even ability to comprehend, certain things like art, beauty, music, the complete erasure of Vorta culture—it was clear that the Founders probably didn’t want them to be distracted by such an indulgence.

“Oh,” you said. “So you’ve never…”

“None of my predecessors have attempted sexual activity,” he said. “Except, well, the first Weyoun, my progenitor. He had a mate. And I hold his memories.”

“So you know _how_ ,” you concluded.

“I suppose so,” he said. “But I don’t think it would be preferable to you.”

“And how do you know that?” you asked with a teasing sort of grin.

“I admit, I have watched a few of the programs Dr. Bashir left behind on the PADDs in his closet,” he said.

You laughed. “You watched Julian’s porn?”

“They were in my quarters,” he said, almost defensively. “Are those not reflective of typical human sexual encounters?”

“I’m not sure,” you said. “I don’t know what exactly you might have watched, and I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a ‘typical’ human sexual encounter. Everyone likes something different.”

“What do you like?” he asked, his voice quiet as he moved in closer once more, placing a hand on your waist as he pressed his lips to your neck.

“A few different things,” you sighed. “Right now I have a few ideas about what I’d like to do.”

“Show me,” he whispered, his lips still on your neck.

You unfastened your trousers and pushed them down, kicking them off onto the floor, and he did the same. He watched intently, with a certain level of desperation that you’d never quite seen in his eyes before, as you climbed into his lap to straddle him. You reached down between your bodies and wrapped your hand around his sex, finding it already hard, and warm, and a bit wet, either from his equivalent of precum, or some kind of natural lubrication. Perhaps it was both. There were small ridgelike indentations along the underside of it and near the base, but the rest of it was almost completely smooth.

His hips squirmed slightly as you stroked him once, twice, a third time, gradually building up a steady, moderate tempo. He whimpered, and his hands squeezed the soft flesh of your thighs. You kissed him hungrily, catching his soft moans and whimpers as they left his mouth. Your clit throbbed in response, and you could feel yourself getting wetter by the second, just from hearing him and feeling his body tremble under yours.

“Feels good,” he panted between kisses.

You raised your hips, and lined him up with your entrance, wanting more, _needing_ more. You paused to give him time to stop you.

He broke the kiss abruptly, and looked at you questioningly. One of his hands joined yours between your bodies, and his eyes widened.

“You’re...very wet,” he said.

“Yes,” you said.

“You...actually want this,” he said. “You want _me_.”

“I thought that was clear,” you said.

Without another word, he kissed you. He held your body close to his, and you sank down onto him, taking him inside you slowly. You whimpered softly at the feeling, both foreign and familiar.

“Oh,” you sighed.

You rolled your hips, adjusting the angle some. Leaning forward some, you felt your clit brush against the ridged section near the base of his shaft, and you gasped at the small wave of pleasure that sent through your body. You tried raising your hips, letting him slide out a bit, and lowering them again, taking him all the way back in, squeezing your eyes shut tightly at the feeling of his ridges sliding along the inside of your cunt.

“Oh, my,” you said softly.

You were breathing hard, and so was he, your breath mingling with his between sloppy, unrefined kisses as you gradually got the hang of things. After a moment, you found a good rhythm.

“ _Mmm_ ,” he moaned, his hips pressing upward into you.

His cock twitched inside you, and he murmured something you couldn’t understand. You weren’t sure if he was just being incoherent, or if there was something wrong with his universal translator, or perhaps if what he had said was simply wholly unknown to the translator.

“I didn’t catch that,” you said breathlessly. “ _Ah. Fuck..._ ”

He said it again, his head digging back into the cushion behind his head. His hips moved with yours now, somewhat erratically, pushing his cock deeper into you, and prompting you to go a little bit faster. You held tightly to his shoulders, and his hands continued to hold your body close to his so that you felt every breath, every tensed muscle, every little movement of his body against yours, and heard even the smallest noise he made.

He looked into your eyes, both of you having given up on trying to kiss long ago as you reveled in the pleasure of the moment. The pressure in your lower abdomen was building. You angled your hips forward again so you could feel the ridges at the base of his cock rubbing against your clit. Your hips slowed, your movements faltering, and your walls contracted around him as suddenly you came.

His eyes closed, and he laid his head on your shoulder, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his hips pressed upward into yours one last time, and he came inside you with a soft grunt.

You stroked his hair lightly, your other hand on his upper arm. “Okay?” you asked.

“ _Mhm_ ,” he managed, the sound somewhat muffled against your neck.

You stayed there like that for a moment, your body against his chest as he leaned against the back of the sofa, his face still in the crook of your neck and his cock still inside you.

“Your mate,” you said after a moment.

“Hm.”

“Are they still alive?” you asked. “Their clone, I mean.”

“No,” he said, pulling back some to look at you. “Few of the original Vorta were deemed worthy of cloning. And,” he paused, thinking, his expression wandering towards somber, “of the mated pairs, only one mate was allowed to... _continue_.”

“That’s terrible,” you said.

He didn’t respond, but looked into the space just past you. His eyes met yours a moment later, looking a tad darker than before, and he kissed you again tenderly. Carefully, he coaxed you onto your back and got on top of you.

“Again?” you asked, smiling some as he looked down at you and stroked your hair.

You caressed his arms gently, and you spread your legs, bending them at the knees and adjusting the angle of your hips for him.

“It seems I’ve got a fairly short refractory period,” he said. “And there are a few things I’d like to try as well, if you’re willing.”

“Absolutely,” you said, and you pulled him down into another kiss.


End file.
